Ben | 21 | Psych student | Mostly Harmless

I hit home runs without stepping up to the plate, and I bake delectable desserts with the intensity of my gaze. England’s top rugby teams scout me for my sense of smell and rugged handsomeness, David Tennant styles his hair to imitate mine, and Harry Potter is a loose biography of my life so far.

I have been in a morgue.

I am both an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Schrödinger’s Cat is actually dead, thanks to me.

I consume slightly more water per week than the average human.

I have traveled the world, supped with kings, pirated cargo ships, faxed documents, discovered elements, and dressed myself in the morning. I built Rome in a day. I was the last person to see the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and the first to eat Wonder Bread.

They come at night.

Never in swarms or droves; only a couple here, a couple there. But it’s enough.

I just want to sleep.

The daylight keeps them away. But then again, so does the moonlight. Or the lamplight. Or even the soft glow of my laptop screen.

They’re not real. Of course they’re not. That would be absurd.

But if they’re not real, why can I see them? Why can I feel them? Why are they so real?

I just want to sleep.

It happens more now than it used to. Almost every night.

They aren’t here now. But they will be.

Maybe if I write about it they’ll go away. Maybe I’ll be able to close my eyes without shuddering in fear and disgust.

Or maybe nothing will change.

I just want to sleep.